Finding Home
by BabblingBrooke
Summary: Once she knew that her whole “wide open future” idea was out the window, she could go back to the over-analyzed, unambiguous way things used to be. So why was it so hard?
1. Chapter 1

**So I know this isn't the most original idea for a story, but I wanted to write one anyway, so I did. I really hope to give it my own spin and make it stand out from all the rest. I hope you guys enjoy it. Please let me know what you think. Thanks**

* * *

**Chapter 1**

It was hot. The decrepit air conditioner that cooled the motel room couldn't muster enough power to make a single, luke warm breeze cross over the threshold of the bathroom. Rory didn't care; in fact she preferred it that way. The stifling heat was almost a distraction. When she felt like she couldn't breath, she blamed it on the thick, water-logged air. When she felt the beads of moisture roll down her cheeks, she could brush it off as just another droplet of sweat. After all, she was covered in plenty of sweat. The thin cotton material of the t-shirt and shorts she wore to bed were drenched with it. The bare skin of her thighs were so sticky with it, she wasn't sure she would be able to detach herself from the peeling brown and tan linoleum floor without leaving a rash. In fact, that seemed like as good an excuse as any to stay right where she was and avoid the true reality of her situation for a few minutes more.

And then another wave of nausea hit. She lurched herself quickly onto her knees, as expected feeling the sting of the floor ripping away from her delicate flesh as though she had just removed the worlds largest band-aid. She didn't have time to think about the pain of her legs as the contents of her stomach spilled out into the ugly, yellow, plaster toilet bowl. When she was sure this latest spell had passed, she reached for a wad of toilet paper and wiped the remnants off of her face. She didn't usually get sick this late at night; perhaps it was just nerves. Perhaps all of the other episodes had really just been some stomach bug. After all, it wasn't morning sickness—not until she saw the plus sign and the little pink dot on the two plastic wands resting innocently on the sink to her left. Until she saw proof, she refused to accept the truth that seemed all too obvious to anyone willing to see.

At first she had honestly not even considered the possibility that she could be pregnant. She had left home one week after her graduation—a week after her break-up with Logan—to report on Barack Obama's presidential campaign. She had packed her clothes and her toiletries and her computer, but she had not packed the little, tan, plastic container of pills she usually took every day. It wasn't like she would be needing them. Logan had left her when she had been unable to jump into a marriage with him. Family planning was hardly a concern after that. Taking her birth control only seemed to remind her of the fact that she would never be with Logan again; that they would never have the opportunity to decide to stop taking birth control for an entirely different reason. She would never have a family with Logan Huntzberger, and she was still trying to decide if it was her fault or his. So when she was a few days late for her period, it was easy to brush it off as being caused by the sudden lack of hormonal influence. And when she was a week late, she had simply accepted that the stress and poor diet associated with being on the road all the time had thrown her cycle off kilter. But now it was two weeks and the presumed morning sickness had begun, her breasts felt tender and she was hungry all the time—at least when she wasn't nauseous—and the reason behind all of it was becoming increasingly clear.

So she had stopped at a drug store that morning and made the purchases that would inform her that her entire life was about to completely change, so soon after it had only just seemed to begin. Then, when her roommate had left for one of her freakishly long runs—it was like living with Janet all over again—she had snuck the tests out of her bag and gone to the bathroom to confirm what her heart already knew and her head refused to believe.

She was pregnant.

She knew that's what the tests said, so why was it so hard to look at them? At least once her fears had been verified she could begin doing what she did best—planning. Once this step was over she could figure out the next one, and the one after that. Once she knew that her whole "wide open future" idea was out the window, she could go back to the over-analyzed, unambiguous way things used to be. So why was it so hard to look at those tests?

She peeked back at the phone that was sitting on the floor in the corner of the room next to where she had been sitting a moment ago and she knew the answer. Her mind flitted back over all of the scenarios that she had imagined up over the last half hour of waiting. She pictured every possible outcome of the phone call that awaited her. In one scenario—her favorite—he was absolutely elated. He confessed how much he loved her and how stupid he felt for giving her the "all or nothing" ultimatum at her graduation. He told her that he would come back to Connecticut and they could be together to start their new family and he let her know that he still wanted to marry her whenever she was ready, whether that was tomorrow, or ten years from now. In another one of her day dreams, he was cold and heartless. He told her that she had ruined his life and he wanted nothing to do with her _or_ their child and then he had simply hung up on her. While she knew that the true reaction would be somewhere in the middle, the worst scenario of all had been the one where she realized she had no excuse to call him up at all.

Because the truth was, with every day that passed from the date of her missed period, she had started thinking of what it would be like to tell him she was carrying their child and no matter what images passed through her head, the thought of just hearing his voice, even if it was only one more time, was one of the few things that managed to bring a smile to her face. She missed him. She missed him more than she had ever missed any other person in the entirety of her existence. So maybe, just maybe, a part of her saw this potential child as their savoir. The thing that would repair what they had broken. And if she was wrong; if there was no child, then he would truly be gone and she would be as alone and empty as she felt.

She flushed the toilet and stood up, feeling the strain in her legs from over forty minutes of sitting. She squeezed her eyes shut as she reached out for the sink and grabbed the first of the two sticks she touched, bringing it up to her face. With a deep breath, she opened her eyes.

* * *

The hustle and bustle of the city streets held Logan's attention. There were so many different people roaming San Francisco. Logan had spent most of his nights over the past week sitting at this outdoor café and people-watching until the sun went down. As each person walked by, he found himself imagining all of the possibilities their life held, and by extension all of the possibilities his own life held. What friends did they have? Where did they live? What did they do in their spare time? Rory had been right—life was wide open. If she could embrace that fact then so could he.

It hadn't been easy at first—in fact it still wasn't easy. When he had first moved to California he had set up shop in the little house with the avocado tree that he had found for him and Rory. He went to work where he threw himself into all of the challenges and rewards his new occupation afforded him. He stayed at the office as long as he could to avoid his own home, and when he finally made it back to the house, he turned all of the lights off and crawled into a ball on his couch, afraid to sleep in his own bed when he knew that there was no one there to share it with him.

But wallowing wasn't helping. The sting of her rejection only seemed to intensify in his newly empty existence. He was alone. No family, no friends, no Rory. She was the one thing that was supposed to make giving everything else up okay. As long as he had her, nothing could hurt him. Without her, every breath of air felt like swallowing a mouth full of wasps.

Then, after a few weeks of this half existence, he decided he'd had enough. He had paid dearly for breaking his lease on the house, but he would have given everything he owner to be rid of the home that was haunted by the memories of a girl who had never set foot in it. He moved to a small one bedroom apartment in the city. He started leaving work at a reasonable hour, after which he found himself here. Sure, he had come to the conclusion that he was going to embrace all of the possibilities his new life held; he had decided he was going to start a life in California—a real, enjoyable life—but he was still working out the logistics and this café seemed as good a place as any to do that. They had good food and they were located in a diverse area of the city where he could examine as many people and lifestyles as he could find.

Logan made note of a man walking by with his long blond hair tied back in a pony tail. He wore board shorts, a t-shirt and flip flops and he was extremely tan. Perhaps Logan would take up surfing. There were a lot of young people to be found on the beach; maybe he would make some new friends.

He took a sip of his tea—coffee reminded him too much of her—and leaned back in his chair to contemplate the possibilities. Surfing was exciting and athletic, and very California. He could definitely see himself on a board. Maybe this weekend he'd give it a try. What did he have to lose? Besides, Rory would probably hate it. He could get eaten by a shark.

The sun was starting to set, so Logan waved to the waitress, indicating she should bring the check over. As he started packing things into his briefcase, his cell phone rang. It was probably work, or maybe his sister, Honor. Those were the only calls he had received since he'd relocated to the west coast. He grabbed for the vibrating device and flipped it open.

"Logan Huntzberger," he greeted. There was silence on the other end. "Hello?" The silence continued for a few more seconds and he was just about to hang up before the caller finally spoke.

"Logan," the hoarse voice whispered. "It's me."


	2. The Loneliest Number Since the Number 1

**Thanks for all the feedback and support. Without further ado, here's the next chapter...**

* * *

She couldn't breath. She couldn't breath and this time she couldn't blame it on the overly saturated air. No—this time it was definitely caused by the body wracking sobs that consumed her. She was curled into the fetal position on the bathroom floor where she had collapsed, no longer able to support her weight with her own legs; not after she had seen what the little plastic strips had to show her.

The tears were overwhelming. She wasn't even sure why she was crying, other than the obvious: she was pregnant and the father of her child had left her. But more precisely? Were they tears of sadness? Relief? Joy? Fear? Was this good news or bad? She had every reason to make that call now—once her body stopped convulsing enough to be able to use the phone clenched tightly in her small, pale fist. She also had an entire life completely depending on her and no idea how to take care of it. What if she told Logan and he rejected her again? Would she be able to do it on her own? Would she be able to do it even half as well as her own mother had? She doubted it—Lorelai was always stronger than she was.

But she would have to find a way. She would have to find a way to tell him, and she would have to find a way to get through this—with or without him. But not quite yet. She would cry just a little bit longer, be weak just a little bit longer, before she had to pull herself together for the sake of her child. She pulled her knees in closer and let the sobs rock her back and forth.

As the bawling finally slowed to quiet sniveling, she became aware of the tingling sensation in her fingers which had remained clenched so tightly around her Sidekick they had begun to go numb. She loosened her grip a little, allowing the blood flow to return to her digits as she unpinned the arm from beneath her and brought the device in front of her face. It was time to make the call.

Her thumb caressed the face of the phone, pausing momentarily over the number "2." Speed dial "1" was reserved for voice mail. Once, long ago the second button had been unwaveringly Lorelai, but during the mother and daughter's falling out two summers previously, Logan had usurped her spot and Rory had never seen fit to change it back.

Two—there were a lot of twos in Rory's life. The two Lorelais. It was a twosome that had seemed unbreakable for so long in Rory's life, until she dropped out of school and she learned that even the Gilmore Girls weren't indissoluble. They had made up, but things were never quite as they had been—Lorelai's new setting at number "3" on Rory's phone just a small reminder of the relationship they had lost. Then there was her and Dean—her first boyfriend, and her second…and her fourth. They were the on again-off again twosome. They were stable and familiar—something she could always fall back on—until Dean got married to someone else and falling back into their old routine had ruined more lives than just theirs. There was her and Lane—the two Musketeers. Best friends forever and while that still hadn't changed in many respects, their lives had drifted so far apart it was difficult to remember that they would always be there for each other.

And then there was Logan. He restored her faith in the number two. He made her believe that two people really could endure anything. God knew their relationship had suffered enough drama, but they had survived it, growing closer and stronger through it all. But her faith had not prevailed. When he asked her to marry him, there was a tiny seed of doubt that forced her to put herself before their relationship. And so the doubt became a self-fulfilling prophecy. Her rejection had broken him, and he in turn broke them.

But there was a new twosome now. Her and her child. And suddenly, it didn't matter what the second member of the pair could do for her. It didn't matter if she could trust her other half, or if someone else would always be there for her. What mattered was what she could do for her child. What mattered was that she would always be there for her (or him) and that started with making this phone call. It started with the number "2."

It didn't matter how scared she was. It didn't matter how badly she wanted to put the call off just so that she could continue knowing she would eventually get to speak to him one more time. She needed to do this for her baby—for _their_ baby. She pressed the button and waited.

"Logan Huntzberger." Her breath caught in her through, the need for oxygen forgotten upon hearing his voice. She wasn't sure how long the following silence went on for as his greeting echoed in her ears. "Hello?"

She didn't want to speak. She didn't want to ruin this moment--this one moment where the three of them existed together for the first, and quite possibly the last time. But she had to. He would hang up in a moment and then she wasn't sure if she would have the courage to call again—not after he saw her name on the caller id.

"Logan," she croaked out, the first words out of her mouth since the torrent of tears were hoarse and raspy. "It's me."

* * *

"Rory?" There was no mistaking the gravelly voice on the other end of the line. A month. It had been one month since he had last heard the speaker, though in many ways it seemed like both yesterday and a life time ago. In many ways it was. He heard her in the dreams that haunted him every night. The words "I can't" slapping him--sometimes metaphorically, sometimes literally--as his subconscious forced him to relive the worst day of his life over and over again. But he had been a different person then—a person she was responsible for creating. He had been a man who had finally gained independence from his pre-ordained destiny and finally learned to accept his dependence on another person. Now he was independent in every sense of the word. Independent and alone and starting his whole life from scratch.

And yet she could still manage to make his whole world implode with just one short sentence. She would probably always be able to turn everything upside down, inside out and backwards. He hated her for that. He hated her for the fact that he would never stop loving her.

Logan dropped his things back on the table without a second thought. "Rory, what's wrong?" She had been crying. He could also tell when she had just been laughing, sleeping, talking with her mother, writing…there was a distinct inflection to her voice that went with each activity although it didn't take his intimate knowledge of her to be able to tell there was something seriously wrong with her at the moment. What he _didn't _get was why she was calling him. He was sure after the way they had ended things he would never hear from her again. He figured it was the best way—for both of them. Cold turkey.

If she was upset she could have called her mother, or Lane, or maybe even Lucy and Olivia. Why was she calling him? "Are you okay? Are you hurt? Sick? Did somebody do something to you?" Why wasn't she answering him? Her silence was filling him with cold dread. He was officially panicked. "Rory, talk to me," he pleaded.

"I'm not hurt," she whispered. "At least not physically," she added, the words just barely audible. He felt himself relax slightly. At least she wasn't in a hospital or laying bleeding somewhere on the side of a deserted road.

"Did something happen between you and Lorelai?" Maybe that's why she couldn't talk to her mother. Maybe the problem was _with _her mother. Another wave of panic hit—maybe the problem was with someone else. What if someone else was hurt? "Richard—his heart?"

"Grandpa's heart is fine." But hers wasn't. The undertones of her last statement were unmistakable.

"Rory, please, you have to tell me what's wrong," he pleaded.

"I…I miss you, Logan."

"Ace," he breathed out automatically, feeling the familiar swell of love and loneliness and hope that he used to feel every time he would call her from London. He cringed at his use of her nickname and at the unwelcome bombardment of emotion. What was she doing to him? He was trying to move on with his life and here she was, butting back in, turning the dull ache of their split into something freshly painful. For a moment it actually felt like their separation was only a physical one—but it wasn't. He couldn't let her do this to him. "No!" He slammed his fist down on the table. "No, you don't get to do this, Rory. You don't just get to call me up sounding like you've just been told you've got six months to live and then tell me you _miss_ me. You can't be serious."

"Logan," she tried to interrupt, her voice--just as fragile as before--hardly able to get through to him.

"Listen, I'm sorry if everything in Rory-land isn't as perfect as it always is, but you're not the only one whose life didn't turn out the way they expected it to. I wanted to _marry_ you, Rory. I wanted to start a life and a family with you. And you said 'no.' _You_ made that decision and now _I'm_ trying to live with your choice the only way I can. The least you could do is leave me the hell alone."

"Logan, please." The crying had started again and he tried to push away the overwhelming sense of guilt. No matter how angry he was, he still loved her and the thought of bringing her to tears tore him up inside.

"I have to go," he replied, steeling off his voice. He stood up, preparing to end the conversation as well as leave the café.

"No, wait!" she cried out. He sighed in frustration, pulling out a few bills to cover the check and let her continue. "I have to tell you something."

"Then tell me already." His patience was wearing thin. He wanted this over with so he could go on with trying to get over her.

"I can't."

"What?" His entire face scrunched up in confusion. "That makes absolutely no sense."

"I mean I can't…I can't tell you on the phone."

_Shit_. He sat back down in the chair again. That could only mean…

"I'm going to be in Sacramento in a couple of weeks on business. I know it's not exactly San Francisco, but it's only an hour or so away. Maybe we could…"

"I don't think that's a good idea, Rory. Just tell me what you have to say." He had a feeling it wouldn't be that easy to get out of this. Rory Gilmore could be persistent when she wanted something.

"I'm sorry," she continued. "I know I made some bad decisions about us—we both did," she clarified, refusing to accept all the blame for the dissolution of their relationship. "But I need you to do this for me, please. If you never want to see me again after that, I'll have to accept that, but I need to talk to you. _Please._"

"No, Rory. I'm sorry, it's just—it's too hard. You have to understand. Just hearing your voice right now…I love you, Rory. Maybe I always will. But if there's even the slightest chance that I can get over you…I can't see you."

"Just think about it, please," she tried again. "You need to hear this. I really think you'll regret it someday if you don't." There was a familiar click and the phone went dead.

* * *

"_I really think you'll regret it someday if you don't"_ The end of their phone conversation played over and over again in his head. What the hell was her problem? Who called their ex up out of the blue, scared the shit out of him, asked for a meeting, and then ended the goddamn conversation like that? It wasn't fair. He was supposed to be getting over her—that was the point. How was he supposed to get over her if she left him with stupid cryptic messages? How was he supposed to get her off of his mind?

He wasn't—that was _her_ point. She was a reporter, just like he once was. She knew he wouldn't be able to let something like that go. He minimized the Excel Spreadsheet--summarizing the companies May subscription distributions--and revealed the contributor bio on Hugo's webzine that was open on the window underneath it. He knew Hugo and Rory would hit it off when he introduced them at that business party. Now she was apparently working for him, reporting on Barack Obama's presidential campaign. It explained why she would be in Sacramento on business in a couple of weeks—actually in 2 weeks, 3 days and 1 ½ hours. That was when Senator Obama would be holding a rally outside of Sacramento City Hall.

He knew it was a bad idea to go. Seeing Rory again would only be a setback. He highly doubted she had reconsidered her position on marriage, and to be honest, he _had._ He had given Rory everything he had. He had put her first in every decision he made. Logan had honestly believed that San Francisco and this job would have been the best thing for them as a couple as well as for himself, but if she had said she wanted to marry him but that she couldn't move, he would have given it all up without question. She wasn't able to do the same for him. She wasn't able to put their relationship before her own desires and goals. He wanted her to have everything she wanted, but if what she wanted was her 'wide open future' no matter the cost, then maybe she wasn't the woman he thought she was. The woman he fell in love with was one who was driven, but who still put her loved ones above all else. She was a woman who taught him to do the same. If they could be on such different pages, maybe it just wasn't meant to be.

Still, it was becoming increasingly clear that he had no choice _but_ to go see her in Sacramento. He didn't know if what she had to say was something he would really "regret" not hearing, but he _did_ know that he would always wonder. If going to see Rory was a setback in getting over her, not going would ensure he never did.

With a sigh, he picked up his phone and dialed the familiar number, his fingers working off of muscle memory. The line rang five times before he heard her voice. "You've reached Rory Gilmore. I can't come to the phone right now, but please leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Have a great day."

He inhaled sharply as he waited for the beep, relieved to have gotten the voicemail. "Look, I'm told there's a pretty decent café a few blocks from City Hall. The Mudd Puddle. I'll meet you there Tuesday at 10, before the rally. And Rory…congratulations on the job. It's just what you always wanted."


End file.
